


Blank

by SonaBeanSidhe



Series: The M Universe [14]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 02:51:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20884928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SonaBeanSidhe/pseuds/SonaBeanSidhe
Summary: Someday, Pat was sure, the thing that lived behind Lorna's eyes would take over and never let her go, but it was not going to be this day.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning, this is the Donovan family: there be child abuse ahead, and mild gore.

Pat hurt, but that was nothing new. The pain that traveled in rolling waves up and down his back was, by now, something he’d felt so often it wasn't worth the bother of crying. Which was a good thing, honestly; if any of them  _ did  _ cry at a belting, Da just hit them all the harder to make them stop. Which even Pat recognized was completely stupid, but his da just liked any excuse he had to hit people.

It was hot, at least by Dublin standards, and beads of sweat ran down his face as he tried to sit still. Their tiny bathroom was stuffy as a coffin, the glare of the single bare bulb harsh in the speckled mirror. He sat on the toilet, while his tiny sister did what she could. Though she only had seven years to his eleven, she could be bloody fucking pushy about some things, and it wasn't worth the effort of fighting her.

Besides, if she didn't take care of his injuries, nobody would.

“Someday I’ll kill him, y’know,” Lorna said. She was careful with the washcloth, or as careful as she could be. It was threadbare, and the faint, rusty stains from the  _ last  _ time Da had had a go at Pat were still there. No amount of washing ever fully got them out.

“Lorna, you shouldn't say shit like that.” Pat hated the wobble in his voice, but at least Da wasn't likely to hear it; once he’d got tired of beating his son bloody, he’d got into the jumped-up paint thinner he called whiskey, and if he wasn't three sheets to the wind by now, he was probably close. “You don't mean it.”

Her tone chilled him. “Don't I?”

He struggled to turn and look at her. Jesus she was tiny — all the Donovans were, and some gobshite at school had called them midgets until Siobhan had a go at him with a half-brick. Lorna’s eyes were still her own, at least; her words might stir heavy dread in his gut, but right now, it seemed, he didn't need to be afraid. He just needed to be careful. “Lorna, will you give over?” he asked. “For me and Shiv and Mick, if nothing else? Da’ll drink himself to death long before any’v us grow up. His liver’s probably forming a union with his kidneys, and they’ll all go on strike soon enough.”

As he’d hoped it would, that drew a smile from her. “Okay. But I'm not done here, so turn around. There aren’t enough sticking plasters, but there’s still the pillowcase.” That too was forever stained, because it was their go-to for when his back was in too terrible a state. “And fuck, just think — we can all go have a wee on his grave every week. Like going to Mass, but with more piss and less incense.” They’d all only ever been to Mass once, when Mam got a wild hair, and none of them had understood the point. Sitting still was crap at the best of times, and all the more so when they had to listen to someone else. (Unsurprisingly, all the Donovans were utter pants at school, not that they cared.)

Turn he did, while Lorna cleaned his cuts and gouges with almost exaggerated care. Sometimes Pat wished he shared her anger, for all he knew it would get her into trouble she couldn’t get out of one of these days — if nothing else, her rage and hatred of their da kept her warm on cold nights. And while that rat fucker smacked all his children around just because they existed, even  _ he  _ was sometimes leery of Lorna — leery of the thing that lived behind her eyes. Once, when he’d been almost took off his face to even speak, he’d let slip that his own da had had it, too. And the thought of an adult with that thing was so fucking terrifying Pat didn't even want to think about it.

~

By the time everything was patched up, Da was long since passed out on the sofa. A cigarette had burnt down into a long line of ash on the manky carpet, and Pat realized that someday one of those things wouldn’t burn out, and instead the whole place would go up like a torch. He hoped Da would be inside when it did.

Lorna hustled him into his and Mick’s room, where they found the poor lad (only three, but he already knew to hide when his da got going) wedged wide-eyed between the battered dresser and the bunk-bed. Da didn't hit him much yet — he was probably just smart enough to realize accidentally killing a toddler would get him sent down for good — but any kid would hide when someone like their da went on a tear.

“C’mon, Mick, it’s all right.” Lorna tugged him out of his hiding-spot, and she and Pat shoved the dresser in front of the door. Da wasn’t getting in unless he went at the door with a hatchet, and he’d have to find the fucking thing first (Shiv had hidden it under the house, with all the spiders). “Pat, go lay down.”

He rolled his eyes, but did as he was told. The mattress was lumpy, the sheets and duvet third-hand and threadbare, but it was all clean...more or less. They all did their best to get everything washed once a week, even if that did mean scrubbing it in the tub (the washing machine worked when it felt like it, which wasn’t very often). His back burned, but his eyes no longer did; Da might be the human equivalent of diarrhea, but the Donovan kids took care of each other. Pat knew his siblings loved him, even if none of them ever really said it out loud. Words were cheap and empty; actions mattered.

The window creaked and groaned as it was forced open, and he looked up to see Shiv squeezing her way inside. Her face was shiny with sweat, and her breathing was ragged — she must have been running. “Here,” she said. “Nicked this from the corner shop.” From her pockets she produced some visibly-melting chocolate bars, and then pulled an entire (somewhat squashed) box of custard creams out from the front of her shirt. 

“How the fuck d’you always get in and out and not get caught?” Lorna asked, even as her sister tore into the box. “They won’t let me out’v their sight now, and you look as much like a Donovan as the rest’v us.”

“Back door,” Shiv said, and tossed a biscuit at Lorna. Of course she missed, but it wasn’t like they didn't all eat things that had fallen on the floor all the time, and sod the five-second rule. “It’s unlocked in the evening because Dai likes to go out back and smoke. Here, Pat, have one’v these.” Although Siobhan was nine, she looked no older than Lorna; the only real difference was that her eyes were hazel rather than green. It wasn’t any wonder people were always mistaking them for twins.

Pat nibbled the biscuit, savoring it. Sweets tasted all the sweeter when they were nicked, though he couldn’t have said why. “Thanks, Shiv.”

“Let me guess,” she said darkly, “Mam’s lying down, is she?” None of them were quite sure if their mam took drugs, or if their da drugged her, or both, but often when she had a lie-in, it was hard to rouse her. It also meant she wasn’t around to protect any of them — not that it did any good even when she was. Da just beat the tar out of her, too.

“Yeah,” Lorna said. “Lucky her.” 

Pat shut his eyes. It was over, for now; Da was like the moon, because his temper waxed and waned. He’d be on a downswing now for a while, and if they were lucky, he wouldn’t come home at night. It was better for everyone when he pissed his wages away at the pub, because at least he was  _ gone _ . The four of them lived in hope that someday he’d piss off the wrong person, and then he’d be nobody’s problem ever again.

~

The sun shone all the next week, and the four of them took full advantage of it: they were out from dawn until dark, though once in a while they’d check in with Mam if she was awake. 

Pat had, over the course of several years, nicked enough bits to build himself and his sisters a bike each — he’d stolen a chain here, a frame there, and wheels wherever he could find them. The results looked like something out of  _ Frankenstein _ , but they worked, and Mick was small enough that he could cling on to Pat’s back like a monkey. It meant they could go further, out to shops where they weren’t known; they managed to nick so much that they had extra to hide under the loose floorboard in Lorna and Shiv’s room. (Da could never be trusted not to trash their rooms, but he didn't know about the floorboard, so they hid anything actually worth having in a plastic garbage sack attached to a nail. It had plenty of spiders to keep it company.)

Things weren’t just okay, they were  _ good _ . When it was the four of them away from that fucking house, out under a summer sky, it was almost possible to pretend none of the bad shite would happen again. They were safe with each other, as they rode on streets that smelled like tar and motor oil, and all the overgrown gardens in the neighborhood added the smell of sun-baked grass. It was summer, and summer meant freedom.

The seventh evening, they sat in the weeds and grass of the Dooleys’ old house (it had been abandoned when John Dooley died and Maire took the kids away, but of course nobody ever got round to doing something sensible, like tear it down), while the sun made its way westward. Shiv had taught herself how to whistle with a blade of grass, and had done her best to play some ungodly pop tune until Lorna threw a dandelion at her.

“Here, Mick, I got you something,” Siobhan said, even as she threw a dandelion right back. “I think somebody left them in the comic shop.” She produced a little cloth bag (that really shouldn’t have fit in her pocket, but she was clever like that) and handed it to her little brother, who still had the red stain of a Popsicle around his mouth.

“What is it?” He was so  _ innocent _ , little Mick — he hadn’t been around long enough to be really afraid of anything, and Da just about ignored his existence. Thought that he’d someday wind up like the rest of them was almost too damn painful, so Pat ignored it.

“Open it, you eejit,” Siobhan said.

Mick’s tiny fingers were careful as he untied the string (which was so frayed it looked like it would give up the ghost at any moment), and even more careful when he reached into the bag. Pat didn't know where he’d learned to be like that, since Christ knew the rest of them were usually about as gentle as bulls on a good day. His eyes lit up, and his face broke into a grin that damn near went from ear to ear. “ _ Marbles!”  _ He’d always wanted a set, since he knew that was what the Big Kids did at school at recess. He might not go to school yet, but fuck if he wasn’t going to be ready when he did.

“We’ll teach you how to play,” Siobhan said. “These ones are your own, so you can stop nicking mine and Lorna’s. School won’t let Lorna play anymore anyway.”

The Lorna in question rolled her eyes. “It’s not my fault Jamie fucking Connelly stole my aggie,” she said. “I  _ had  _ to lamp him.”

“Lorna, you hit him in the face with a rock,” Siobhan said, and rolled her eyes. “You knocked out two’v his teeth.”

“And I kept them,” Lorna said. “I just wish I could stick one in a marble.”

Mick might as well have been deaf, he was so oblivious. These were really nice marbles, an actual matching set with what looked like ribbons of glass in the middle — some red, yellow, and orange, and others blue, green, and purple. 

“That bag needs a better string,” Pat said. “If it falls under the house,  _ I’m  _ not going to crawl in after it.” Unlike his sisters, he wasn’t exactly  _ afraid  _ of spiders, but the things that lived under the house gave even him the creeps. He was pretty sure one of them was a mutant, because he’d swear it was the size of his hand.

“Eh, there’s got to be a broken shoelace somewhere,” Lorna said. “Mick, we just have to play when Da’s not home. You can’t let him know you’ve got these, okay? They’re just yours. Nobody else needs to know.” It was sometimes hard to make Mick understand that Da wasn’t above breaking something just so nobody else could have it. A three-year-old didn't have much concept of the fact that sometimes, a person was such a piece of shite that they had fun tormenting someone who’d done them no harm. 

“’Kay.” The marbles glittered like water in the sunlight, clear and pure, just like Mick.

~

Of course, everything had to go to shit that night.

Normally, Da would’ve been well under by the time they got home — if not actually passed out, at least so locked out of his bin that he’d do nothing but stare at the TV, oblivious. Tonight, though, he was wide-fucking-awake, though his eyes were so red he was nowhere near sober. He looked so much like all of his children that it was downright creepy — same coloring, same features, same hazel eyes as three out of the four — and though he wasn’t a large man, he didn't need to be, when his kids were so small.

“Mick, go around back,” Siobhan whispered, before they’d even got to the door. “Stay outside. We’ll let you in through the window when it’s safe.”

The poor lad looked ready to cry, but he was still a Donovan — off he went, melting into the shadows along the side of the house. Even at three, he could be quiet as a cat.

Pat squared his shoulders, but dread curdled in his stomach like sour milk as he stepped through the door. He shouldn’t flinch — he  _ wouldn’t  _ flinch — but when Da had that ugly expression, it was just a matter of time before the belt came off. If he was in a really shit mood, he hit with the buckle-end.

“The fuck’ve you lot been?” Da demanded. His voice was raspy with drink and probably a solid pack of fags, and the stink of whiskey was so thick on his breath it was almost like a physical thing. The mix of it with whatever greasy shite he’d had for dinner was almost enough to make Pat sick.

“Out,” Pat said. “Out’v the way.” It was a long, long shot, but sometimes, if he made it sound like they were doing something for Da’s benefit, things might not end in a thrashing.

No such luck, apparently — the back of Da’s hand hit his cheek with surprising speed for somebody so hammered, so fast and so hard it sent Pat staggering before he could help it. Pain exploded through the entire left side of his face, and he’d swear he felt one of his molars crack. 

Sibohan snatched his arm, and tried to pull him away before Da could right his balance enough to go in for another swing. It just sent them both slamming into the ancient coffee-table when another smack landed. Whatever Da was yelling was totally unintelligible, but it wasn’t like it actually  _ mattered _ — his temper was up, and that was that. It’d be the belt if they couldn’t get back outside, but pissed though he was, Da knew how to block an exit.

Pat tried to get up, but the hit to his temple had rung his head so hard than nausea roiled through him. Wet heat trickled down through his hair, along his jaw and even into his ear—

In the space of a few seconds, Da’s bellowing shifted notes — deep rage rose to high, screeching pain.  _ Something  _ hit the wall with a force the dented the Sheetrock, and the stink of burnt hair, skin, and grease slapped Pat every bit as hard as his da had just done.

He and Shiv somehow scrambled out of the way — barely — before Da actually fell on the coffee-table. He might be a small man, but he went down like a sack of bricks, and the impact sent the whole thing listing left. It didn't quite collapse, though the wood creaked and splintered.

The blood in Pat’s ear gave his hearing a weird, underwater quality, and he stumbled again when Shiv hauled him all the way upright. Even with his balance shot to hell, he was ready to leg it and deal with the consequences later. Ready, that was, until he spotted his little sister, and the bottom seemed to drop out of his stomach.

None of them really knew what it was, the thing that lived behind Lorna’s eyes. They’d always just called it the Blank, because Christ fucking knew it described her expression well enough when it had hold of her. There was nothing — no anger, no fear, no anything at all. Her eyes were as flat and nearly empty as a doll’s — nearly, but not quite, because just beneath them was something as cold as space and just as inhuman. It took only a moment to realize she’d thrown the pan, grease and all, at their da; the pan missed, but the grease hadn't. No fucking wonder he was screaming bloody murder.

_ Shit _ .

Pat had enough wits to keep his mouth shut, and so did Shiv. Lorna had never hurt any of her siblings when she went blank, but that didn't mean they were anxious to catch her attention. Good bloody Jesus, what was wrong with her, his tiny sister? What in her was so broken that she’d even have that thing —  _ be  _ that thing? She was so small she shouldn’t be threatening to anyone; even Da could grab her and throw her one-handed. Somehow, though, her size wasn’t reassuring at all, because the thing behind her eyes was so horrifyingly alien.

Da hadn't noticed yet, and no fucking wonder: he had an ugly burn all up the length of his left forearm, shiny with grease and stinking so much like cooked meat that Pat was again very nearly sick. The sharp, bitter reek of scorched hair told him Da had more than one burn on his head, too. Somehow, the man staggered to his feet, though his balance was so awful he almost fell right back onto the coffee-table. His expression was so ugly, so full of rage and hatred in a face so purple he surely ought to have burst a blood vessel by now.

Pat shoved Shiv backward, but there wasn’t any real need — they weren’t the targets of Da’s anger anymore. Fuck, Da didn't even seem to see them; they might as well not have existed for all the mind he paid them. With a wordless snarl, he turned and tripped but somehow kept his feet.

No sooner had he than Pat all but threw Siobhan out the front door, safe away. If she had even half the brain God gave a fucking turnip, she’d get Mick and scarper back to the Dooley place. Da wouldn’t find them there even if he did somehow manage to take more than five steps without landing on his arse, which wasn’t bloody likely.

His infuriated growling cut off so abruptly Pat at first wondered if he’d blacked out, but no: he’d spotted Lorna, still motionless, still blank, her little hands bloody and blistered at her sides. If Grandda really had also had the Blank, it was no fucking wonder even little Lorna would give him pause — if Da ever had nightmares, they were probably about flat green eyes, and a fury so intense you could break the world on the strength of it. He’d been Lorna’s size once, hard as it was to imagine, faced with an adult who’d think nothing at all of — well, of hitting someone with a pan full of hot grease.

Pat weighed the merit of telling his da to get the fuck away, and decided it wasn’t worth it. There was no chance, anyway; no sooner had the thought occurred than Lorna moved. Good bloody Jesus, even  _ that  _ was wrong: Lorna was as clumsy as any kid her age, but when she was Blank, she was as fast and silent and agile as a fucking snake.

Too late, he saw the fork gripped in her left hand, though not so late as Da, who didn't notice a goddamn thing until he quite suddenly had the thing sticking out the back of his hand. He didn't even have time to yell before Lorna’s teeth joined it, tearing at the burned, blistered skin like a rabid dog. Even now she made no sound, though Da more than fucking made up for it by screeching like a rook in a blender. The sound tore through Pat’s head like a hacksaw, ringing through his ears and straight into his brain—

He was nearly knocked off his feet when Da lurched backward, right into him; even as it was, he stumbled straight into the wall with such force it knocked the breath right out of his lungs. For a moment his vision greyed, then fuzzed, and his world narrowed into a desperate search for oxygen that didn't seem anywhere to be found. Fresh pain flared in his head, jagging all down his neck in waves as red as the blood that clogged his ear — as the blood that spurted from his da’s hand.

_ Somehow _ , Da managed to break her grip — he kicked her away like she was some kind of wild animal, which probably wasn’t that far off the mark. Pat couldn’t take any satisfaction in the sheer, naked horror on his face, because the Blank was still high in Lorna’s eyes, her little teeth smeared with blood. The kick didn't seem to have hurt her at all, but then, it wouldn’t — she never did feel anything while the Blank had hold of her.

At least two of Da’s brain cells must have been firing, because he had the sense to leg it into his and Mam’s room. Pat wasn’t about to stick around long enough to see what sort of weapon he might stalk back out with, either, but he couldn't well go and leave Lorna.

“Fun Size, I really need you to come off it,” he said, and he wasn’t at all ashamed of the tremor in his voice. “We’ve got to go. Come on now, Shiv and Mick’ll be waiting.” He hated that he feared her, that he could be afraid of one of the few people in the world he knew actually loved him. The day might come where she attacked one of them, and it wasn’t a thought he could bear. “Come on, Lorna. Mick’s still got his marbles, and if Shiv hasn’t got the food out’v your room, I’ll throw a boot at her.  _ Please _ , Lorna.”

Something in his sister’s expression cleared, just a fraction — the haze of rage lifted from her eyes, but she still wasn’t the one at home yet. That always took a while, though that came sooner if they were safe somewhere, safe away from Da and everything to do with him.

“That’s it,” Pat said, more than a little desperately. “I mean it, Lorna — let’s go.” Carefully, oh so carefully, he took her hand, and grimaced when a blister burst beneath his fingers. “We’ll get you cleaned up and eat the rest’v the custard creams, and if you want we can go see if there’s any way into the shop. I know you always wanted to try to crawl through a vent.”

To his utter relief, she followed when he tugged her hand, out into the summer night. It had cooled in a hurry once the sun went down, but chill never bothered any of them very much. Out here the air was fresh, more or less, with no whiskey or grease or copper-salty blood. Out here they were safe, and he wondered, not for the first time, if it wouldn’t be better if they all just...ran away. It didn't matter where, because anyplace was better than here.

“I’ll kill him,” Lorna said, and he couldn’t be certain if it was her or the Blank speaking. The words were dreamy, her soft, flat tone so horrible a contrast with the gore on her face and the ice in her eyes. 

Dread squeezed Pat’s heart, because he believed her. Someday she’d do it, and the Blank might never let go of her again. “Yeah, well, it won’t be today,” he said, as they passed silent through the long grass beside the house. If he’d believed in any sort of god, he might have prayed for his sister, but he doubted any god could help her even if there was one. Something in her was so broken he didn't think anything in any world could fix her. “Not today.”


	2. Blank the Second

It was a misty, chilly, miserable day, and the Donovans Four, blanket-bundled, sat in a row with their backs to the radiator. Its warmth was anemic, but it was better than nothing — certainly better than either bedroom, both of which might as well have been meat-lockers.

They were safe enough for now, given Da was gone; whether he was at the pub or some half-arsed attempt at a job was anyone’s guess, but it didn't really matter. He wasn’t home, and Mam was actually making breakfast — proper breakfast, sausage and eggs the quartet had lifted from the local VG. Mam never asked where they got half the things they brought home, and Lorna suspected she didn't want to know.

The scent of frying sausage was wonderful; it overlay, for now, the odor of stale cigarettes, cheap whiskey, and general sourness that had permeated the home as long as Lorna could remember. She had no name for the sourness, and none of her siblings did, either — it was something unique to their house, its genesis lurking somewhere beneath the threadbare carpet. Shiv was convinced it was some kind of exotic mold found nowhere else in the world. Lorna neither knew nor cared; unpleasant though it was, it was the smell of home.

She picked at a bit of frayed, plastic thread that had come loose from the edges of a hole in the carpet. What the original color had been was a mystery, because fifteen years’ worth of stains had turned it into a strange, blobby patchwork in shades of brown and grey, dotted all over with penny-sized burns. Da had a nasty habit of passing out on the sofa with a lit fag in his hand, and Lorna was fairly sure that one day he’d burn the house down like that. She could only hope he’d not wake up when it happened.

Mam hummed a little as she cooked, and Lorna watched her curiously. Like them, Mam rarely dared make noise when Da was home — she was a gaunt ginger ghost, pale and hollow-eyed, but at times there were glimpses of who she maybe ought to have been. Who she might actually be, if only Da would do them all a favor and drop dead.

_You could make sure of that, you know._

The thought had crossed Lorna’s mind so often it had left grooves. Yes, she could indeed make sure of that, and on one exceptionally dark night, she very nearly had. It was so, so tempting, but not tempting enough to turn her into a murderer at ten years old. The cleaver had been huge in her tiny hand, which had not shaken as she regarded the useless lump of humanity that was theoretically her father.

_No_, she countered. _No, that’s not me._

The answering thought was hard and ice-cold: _Yet._

She shook herself. Right now there was sausage, there was her Mam acting like an actual mam, and her siblings all in a row. They sat as they always did, with Pat on one end and her on the other, with Shiv ready to grab Mick and run if she had to. It was instinct, and it had served them well so far.

“Come on over here, the lot’v you.” Mam’s voice was soft, and her accent softer; she hadn't grown up in Dublin, though she never spoke of her childhood. “Come on and get this while it’s hot.”

They needed no second urging. In this house, you snatched your food and you ate it in a hurry, unless some of it could be saved for later. Whatever was left would get hidden in an ancient plastic shopping bag beneath Lorna or Shiv’s mattress.

The sausages were greasy, and so hot it burned their fingers, but there was no point in bothering with utensils if you didn't need them. Meals were an uncertainty in the Donovan household, and hot meals even more so. There wasn’t really time to savor.

For some reason, Mam always looked terribly sad when they fell on their food like wolves. None of them understood it, and dismissed it as one of the many incomprehensible vagaries of adults in general, and their mother in particular.

Scrambled eggs did need forks, but they still gobbled their portion — and it was a good thing they did, because the telltale creak of the porch heralded the arrival of their much-hated father.

He came in stinking so badly of booze that the reek reached the kitchen long before he did, red-eyed, his complexion an odd but familiar shade of grey. Da wasn’t a large man — Mam was actually a touch taller — but he was so much bigger than his children that he didn't need to be in order to be a threat. Lorna hated that they all looked so much like him, though not nearly so much as she hated the man himself.

As ever, all of them tensed. A trace of sick, liquid fear traveled through Lorna’s gut — not for herself, but for her mam. For Pat, the eejit, who insisted on taking the brunt of their father’s wrath no matter what anyone said to him.

“Save me any’v that?” he asked. He might have been half off his face, but his hazel eyes were sharp as knives, assessing and searching for any sign of weakness.

In point of fact, nobody had saved any for him; the last portion should have been their mam’s, but of course the wretched woman would give it over to this worthless gobshite without a word of protest. Why? _Why?_ Sometimes Lorna wanted to shake her mother, to scream until something like sense pierced whatever fog shrouded Mam’s mind. What little light had entered her blue, blue eyes always went out when Da came home, and yet she never just fucking left .

“Of course, Niall.” Mam’s voice was quiet with defeat.

A surge of molten rage passed through Lorna, from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes. _Jesus fuck, Mam, WHY?! WHY DO YOU ALWAYS BLOODY DO THIS?_Someday, the words would actually leave her throat, but for now she was silent, while loathing seethed and bubbled within her mind like some kind of boiling poison.

Da said nothing at first, but something ugly and cruel passed over his expression, so minute that somebody less hyper-aware than his daughter wouldn’t have caught it. “No you didn't,” he said. “You were going to eat that all, and leave a working man to starve.”

Lorna wasn’t quite sure who snorted at that, but somebody did, and it wasn’t her. _Working man, my arse , _she thought_. Working at ruining your liver, maybe. _

For such a small, ossified man, her father could move remarkably fast — he was across the kitchen with jarring speed, but before his hand could connect with his wife’s face, Lorna plowed into him like the world’s tiniest rugby player. She was small enough that the crown of her head barely reached his ribs, but that just meant his stomach bore the brunt of the impact. 

Had he been sober, it might have done fuck-all; as it was, it sent him staggering back out of the kitchen. This time, his slap actually landed, so hard with the side of Lorna’s head that for the briefest of moments, dark stars bloomed behind her eyes. Some dim part of her registered the pain, but in that instant the white heat of her wrath kept it a distant irrelevance.

He hit her again, harder — hard enough to drive her backward, and nearly knock her off her feet. It only fed the hatred-laced fury that surged through her veins, through her mind with all the force and heat of magma. Mam might not have a spine, but Lorna bloody well did — oh, she’d pay for this later, but she didn't care. Not now, when the resignation of her mother’s voice still rang in her ears. 

_Fuck you and the horse you fucked in on, you walking skip fire._The thoughts were there, and mostly in order, but all that left her throat was a snarl that bordered on inhuman. Her ears would not make sense of whatever idiocy spewing from her da’s mouth, because it was as irrelevant as he was. Eyes sharpened by rage bent on his face with a malice so intense it felt as though it might rend her apart.

So fixated was she that she didn't — couldn’t — dodge the next thing that connected. It wasn’t his hand, it was the heavy glass ashtray that sat atop the scratched and ancient kitchen table, and it struck her temple with such force that it blinded her for half a breath. Ash rained down through her hair, and with it the warm wetness of blood. _That_ hurt, so much so that it lanced down her neck even as it exploded through her head.

She faltered one step, then two; her vision dimmed to a faded grey as consciousness fought and barely won. Her head throbbed in time with the thunder of her pulse, and it sent nausea churning in her stomach.

Her next uneven, agonized breath sent a blessed chill into her veins. It woke now, the thing behind her eyes, a leviathan dormant no more. Lorna herself never remembered what it did when it stirred, but it never forgot. Its malign, proto-awareness never forgot a thing.

Lorna — and everyone else — assumed the Blank was a form of mindless rage so intense there was no room for rationality, but that was not quite accurate. The Blank passed through the valley of wrath, into some strange serenity on the other side. Unlike Lorna, it was, in an odd way, at peace — at peace with what it meant to do, untroubled by things like guilt or hesitance. It saw the fear that rose in her father’s eyes, an echo of the terror he’d felt of his own green-eyed father. It wasn't rational — not with how tiny his daughter was, how much weaker — but it was a relic of which he would likely never be rid.

The Blank could take no satisfaction in it, for the Blank took no satisfaction in anything. He froze, if only for an instant, and that was enough for it.

It had no weapon near to hand save the ashtray, but that would work. Her da was fast, but it was faster; the ashtray was honestly too big for her small hands, but no matter. It was only in them for a moment before the Blank hurled it at his face with the speed of a striking snake.

Had he been sober, he likely could have dodged, or at least fended it off. He was very far from sober, however, which meant the ashtray made full contact with his face. The Blank was not really much stronger than Lorna herself, but the thing was heavy enough to make up for the relative lack of force. Something went snap , but it was scarcely audible over his sudden bellow. 

There was blood — so much blood — but the Blank watched it with dispassion. It would dye the carpet, as it had several times and several places before now, and there it would stay, testament to Niall Donovan’s inability to learn.

Someday, when the opportunity came, the Blank would kill him. Someday, when the time was right and the circumstances such that he would stand no chance of defending himself. Until then, it abided.


End file.
